


The Adventures Of Kitten And Doctor Love

by alexabarton



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Come Shot, Explicit Sexual Content, Facials, M/M, Porn Star John, Sherlock is a Size Queen, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hot men wanted for strictly adult entertainment - or how John Watson ends up taking his kit off for a living and loving it a little too much!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventures Of Kitten And Doctor Love

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired eons ago by a lovely little penis friday tumblr post which is now unfortunately lost in the ether - enjoy!

‘How about this one then?’ Mike Stamford asked, turning the newspaper around so John could see it, folded over at the jobs page. It was lunch time, they were sitting in a pub, nursing drinks in lieu of actual food, and after three pints on an empty stomach John Watson was well on his way to being pleasantly inebriated.

He groaned, audibly, ‘Now you’re not even taking this seriously mate, Jesus Christ, why is it so hard to earn a decent living these days.’

Mike sighed in sympathy, swilling the dregs of his drink around the glass and knocking it back in one swig, ‘Yeah well, you know I’d put in a word for you at Bart’s but with all the cuts to public sector and whatnot, new jobs are rare as hen’s teeth and they’re only taking on interns, sorry.’

‘Not your fault,’ John muttered, ‘I’m the one who got myself shot.’

As he said it, a phantom pain shot down the side of his leg and John winced and shifted in his seat. A timely reminder of the broken body and the equally broken soul he’d only just managed to drag back from the desert. But of course, no-one else was allowed to see that, least of all Mike Stamford who’d known John when they were young and whole making plans for a future that only one had managed to achieve. How had John got it so, so wrong?

‘Hey, here’s one for you. Check this one out, bloody perfect.’ Mike crowed in triumph, breaking through John’s dive into self-pity, and presented the page to him with a flourish, failing to notice John’s grimace of discomfort.

_Hot men wanted for strictly adult entertainment. All ages considered. Excellent rates paid for the right candidate._

Was he serious? John snorted into his pint glass. ‘Porn? Yeah right. I can just see it now.  An army veteran with a limp and a badly healed gunshot wound, they’d laugh me right out the door in a heartbeat. And that’s before I could even get my kit off.’

‘Not an outright no then… that’s…interesting,’ Mike smirked, tapping his bottom lip, as if deep in thought.

‘Oh God,’ John spluttered in protest, ‘I am clearly not getting my dick out for a living. No….just no. There, look, I said it. Now will you please shut up, make yourself useful, and go get me another pint.’ He held out his glass with a slightly pleading look in his eyes.

‘Well why not? Mike shrugged, slipping out of his seat and standing up, taking the glass from him. ‘We watched a metric ton of that shit back in the day, and I think I recall the Watson appendage was the stuff of legend down the Union bar. And you’ve still got it,’ Mike added, 'Those ladies at the bar seem to think so, should we ask them over do you think?'

John risked a quick glance, and sure enough two women in their thirties, he guessed, were watching him appraisingly. And while it might have been good for the ego, his libido remained unmoved.

He shrugged. ‘I was nineteen for god’s sake, and you know how people exaggerate.’ John scrutinised the ad again, all three lines of it, shifting so the women at the bar moved out of his line of sight. ‘Doesn’t ask for girls,’ he said looking up at Mike, ‘No prizes for guessing why that is.’

‘So?’ Mike shrugged, ‘Don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe they have enough actresses already? They’re always banging on about how students do it to pay their way through Uni, you know, lap dancing, stripping, escort work sometimes. Porn’s gone mainstream these days mate, there’s really no shame in it.’

‘Nah,’ John pushed the nagging temptation away, mildly horrified to find that it _was_ , in fact, a very real temptation. It could be easy money, very easy, and he was ex-military which meant he was more than capable of handling himself if the whole thing turned out to be dodgy. ‘I don’t think they’re looking for ladies at all,’ he said.

‘And?’ Mike raised a brow in surprise. ‘We both know that wouldn’t be the deal-breaker.’

John paused. Of course Mike would know. He’d never been out as such back then, but he’d always had what you might call an equal opportunities policy when it came to a nice body.

‘You’re really not helping here Mike, this is meant to be a job hunt, not finding ways to pimp me out, and anyway, seriously, no-one wants to look at vertically challenged injured veteran with the start of a middle-aged spread. He patted the small, soft protrusion, that only lately had decided to spill from the top of his waistband. But would they? John thought. He certainly wasn’t hideous, unless the mirror was telling porkie-pies, and oh my god, was he actually considering doing this?

‘Sorry mate, you do know I’m only joking right?’  Mike laughed nervously and waggled his glass in the air in front of him, ‘My round I think. Same again?’

John nodded, glad of the change of topic, ‘Yeah, and get some crisps this time too, Ready Salted.’

‘You boring old fart.’

‘Yep, that’s me.’

Mike turned towards the bar and John huffed out a breath. He was relieved to have reached the end of this quite frankly, ridiculous discussion, watching as his friend ambled over to the bar for another round of beer and unhealthy salted snack foods. Nothing happens to me, he’d told his therapist only last week, and her brilliant answer had been, ‘Well you have to go out and make something happen John, the world isn’t going to come to you.’ And so he had. Gone out that is, for a limp around Regent’s in the biting February cold, not expecting anything more than an aching leg and runny nose for his troubles. But Mike had been there, sipping coffee from an insulated mug, sitting on a newspaper on a damp wooden bench by an ornamental flower bed. And another coffee later, in a much warmer Costa and it was almost like John was twenty-one again. Mike hadn’t changed much, well, apart from a few stone extra in body weight. Not that he looked much better himself, his hair being more silver than blond these days. The simple human contact had felt so good after week upon week of dull grey nothingness. It felt like an achievement to just be out in the world again.

So here they were, like old times, only shittier, and not very good. But at least it was a start - and things could only get better, right?

He wasn’t quite sure why he did it in the end, pulling the paper across the table again while Mike still had his back turned, and carefully tearing out the ad in the bottom left-hand corner of the page. A momentary flash of insanity, probably, he mused as he folded the scrap two, three, four times and pushed it into the depths of his pocket, heart thumping wildly in his chest at the thought of it. This was hardly what his therapist had had in mind.

‘How about Asda?’ Mike said then, coming back, hands full, sliding in the booth beside him again. ‘The bloke behind the bar just said they’re taking on more staff to cope with the online shopping lark, need drivers. It could be okay as a stop-gap till something comes up at the hospital.’ A fresh pint banged down on the table in front of him, foam slopping over the rim of the glass, a bag of crisps slapped down in the wet patch.

John groaned inwardly, and thought about the dingy bedsit which he could only just afford on his pittance of an army pension, and just how far he had yet to sink. Yeah, it really was a joke Mike. He had not gone through six months of hell in recovery, to come home like an invalid and work minimum wage in fucking Asda.  No way. ‘I’m really not that desperate yet,’ he said, even though he clearly was.

He fingered the edges of the paper in his pocket.

Cold hard cash for doing what he washed down the bathplug for free twice a day?

It couldn’t do any harm to find out how much they paid for this, just as a casual inquiry - right?


End file.
